


Cooking 101

by marvelqueen



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Food Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelqueen/pseuds/marvelqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You cook a meal with Pietro</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooking 101

The cooking class was Pietro’s idea. He saw the ad in a newspaper—yes, a newspaper—he’s the only person I know who still reads one of those. It was billed as a romantic date—learn the fine art of making French cuisine.

 

I wasn’t fond of French cuisine. I wasn’t fond of cooking in general. I was horrible at it actually. Pietro was the cook in the house. I was the one who started fires—literally! I had almost burnt down the loft three times. Once a small grease fire—that one wasn’t my fault; I had no idea bacon splattered oils like that. The next one was from cooking something at 450 degrees instead of 225 degrees. How was I supposed to know that was a bad idea? I was just trying to save time. And the last was toasting bread in the broiler for too long.

 

I was surprised when Pietro told me about the cooking class because he had told me months ago—after the third fire—that the kitchen was his domain. The only thing I could make was cereal.

 

Not surprisingly, Pietro was the teacher’s pet. He even learned French just to make the dishes more authentic. “Essayez mon bœuf bourguignon, enseignant?” He said after his first dish. I didn’t know what it meant, but I translated it as, “Look at how great this looks next to my silly wife.” To top it off, he even used his speed to go to a winery in the South of France for something to wash it down. Asshole.

 

After watching Pietro prepare dish after dish of perfection, and spewing off fluent French, I decided it was time for me to return to the kitchen. As soon as Pietro left for work, I left for the kitchen where I planned on making Gratin dauphinois, and Poire belle Hélène for desert.

 

Half my morning was spent at the market trying to find ingredients that I could only sort of pronounce. And the other half trying to figure out how to use the mixer.

 

I was halfway through with peeling the pears when Pietro came through the door.

 

“Pietro? What are you doing home?”

 

“Can a husband surprise his wife for lunch?” He asked waking into the kitchen. He paused at the door and looked around the kitchen with a confused look on his face, “What’s all this?”

 

I looked down disappointed at the food, “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

 

“But you can’t cook?”

 

“That’s encouraging.” I rolled my eyes.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with this. You are perfect at everything else.”

 

I ignored him and turned to continue cutting the potatoes in front of me.

 

Pietro came up behind me and reached around, grabbing the knife from my hand. “Let me help,” he whispered in my ears. He quickly, and perfectly, began to cut the potato before I could protest.

 

“How am I supposed to learn?”

 

“What’s there to learn? You have me.”

 

“Then what was the point of the class?” I asked turning into his arms.

 

Pietro smiled. “That was for me—I felt weird taking it by myself.”

 

I pushed him back. “You used me?”

 

“Was that bad?” He laughed.

 

I pushed passed him annoyed.

 

“Come on, Y/N!” Pietro pleaded, “I liked having you there.”

 

I started to argue. Before I could speak he pinned me against the refrigerator and restrained my wrist above my head. “I didn’t come home to fight you.”

 

“Why’d you come home then?” I asked irritated, “And don’t say sex because you don’t get that when you treat me like this.”

 

“How am I treating you?”

 

I pulled my hands free from his grip and pushed him back, “I try and do something nice and you just ignore it and act like I wouldn’t be able to.”

 

Pietro looked around the kitchen. It was a mess—cutting boards, mixers, knifes-all lined the counters in complete disarray. He signed, “You really put a lot into this.”

 

I nodded.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

"Too bad," I shrugged and pulled off the dress I was wearing. I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties. I turned away from Pietro and walked towards the counter teasing him with my naked ass.

 

Pietro’s hand grabbed my waist. I turned around. He was naked too—he used his speed to disrobe.

 

I pulled his hand off me. “What are you doing?”

 

Pietro looked at me, then his eyes moved down to my perky tits. “You tell me.”

 

“You want me to spell it out? No lunch sex when you treat me like that.”

 

“You’re a tease.”

 

“And you're an ass. Plus, I don’t want to have all this food go to waste.”

 

“So you took off all of your clothes.” Pietro smirked. Ugh. His accent just makes it worse sometimes. 

 

“Not everything is about sex, Pietro.” I explained irritated enough to make his smirk quickly disappear. “If you knew me at all, you’d know that I sometimes get naked to concentrate—it makes me feel more clearheaded.”

 

Pietro started to laugh. I was not amused. “Put your clothes back on,” I ordered.

 

Pietro obeyed and sat at the table. I kept my back towards him as I prepared the food. I desperately wanted to turn—to see his face—to see the look of him being driven mad with desire. It was driving me mad too—I wanted him so badly to come up behind me—to slide his warm hands up my thighs until they were over my pussy; I wanted his fingers to play with my clit while his hard cocked pressed against my ass. And I wanted his tongue on my neck and shoulders and ear lobes—I wanted it all over my body.

 

I felt myself getting wet thinking about it.

 

“Can you grab me a ice cube?” I turned when I felt Pietro behind me. I stood inches from him—my nipples almost touching his chest—I inched my lips towards his but stopped short of kissing him, then took the ice cube from his hand and stepped back. “Is it hot in here?” I moved the ice cube around my breast slowly until it was over my nipple; I left it there as I closed my eyes and signed pleasurably. I moved it to my other breast and did the same; the warmth of my body melted it quickly. Before it was completely gone, I moved it down—over my stomach, pelvis and finally vulva; I left it there until it was completely melted.

 

“You are cruel.”

 

“Just trying to keep cool.” I said, then moved my now icy hands under his shirt and up his hairy muscular chest, “You aren’t hot?”

 

“I am now.”

 

“Go take a cold shower then.”

 

“You sure you don’t need more ice?” Pietro smiled.

 

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Pietro.” I turned back around, “Get your head off sex. I was just a little hot.”

 

He slapped my ass, “You’re more than just a little hot.”

 

“And you are more than just a little horny—go sit down.” As he was sitting, I looked at the Poire belle Hélène—it was a easy desert to make: pears poached in sugar syrup and served with ice cream and chocalate syrup. “The desert will be ready soon—do you want it before you leave for work?”

 

“I’m good.” Pietro said, clearly not happy with his break.

 

I took vanilla ice cream from the freezer and held it out, “Come on—you can help me make it.”

 

He started to stand, still annoyed. I walked to the table, past Pietro, who was walking towards me. “The pears are in the refrigerator. I already glazed them. Can you bring them here.”

 

While Pietro’s back was turned, grabbing the pears from the refrigerator, I sat on top of it, then reclined backwards. When Pietro turned with the pears, his eyes wide and confused. He didn’t move. “Come on—before the ice cream melts.”

 

A smile was on Pietro’s face as he stood over me. I took the plate of pears he was holding and placed one sliced half on each of my breast, over my nipples. I held the ice cream up towards him, “Just put this on top—the recipe also calls for a chocolate syrup.”

 

Pietro put a scoop on each pear, and topped it with the syrup. My body was hot and it was already melting, but Pietro took his time. I moved my legs up, and used my toes to play with his cock; his pants were on, but I could feel how erect it was. “How do you like it?”

 

“Amazing—I think you are a better cook then I first believed.”

 

When Pietro finished, there was ice cream all over my breast. I wrapped my legs around his back and motioned him downward, “You aren’t finished yet.” I rubbed my fingers over my clit, and moaned as his warm tongue licked every inch of my breast. My stomach was weak and I was close to climaxing, but pulled him off before I did. I got on my knees and reached for his zipper, “I haven’t had my desert yet.” I dropped his pants and spread chocolate syrup over his balls and shaft, then slide my mouth over his manhood and sucked it hard when he began to moan.

 

I knew he was going to cum soon, but he pulled my mouth out of him before he did, “I want to cum inside you.” He lifted me back on the table and knocked off a plate in the process; we both laughed as it shattered on the ground. He went back to the freezer and returned with an ice cube, then began to rub it all over my body—first my arms, then my neck and breast and abdomen, and finally my pelvis, where he got just to the clit and then stopped.

 

He took the cube, put it in his mouth; I could see him swishing it inside and then it was gone—melted. He moved his mouth to my clit and I moaned in pleasure as I felt the chill of his tongue. My vagina moistened even more.

 

“Fuck me.” I pleaded.

 

His body went back up and his hands grabbed each of my hips and lifted my ass off the table; slowly he slid it onto his towering cock. With his hands still on my hips, he began trusting me harder and harder. Faster and faster. I squeezed my nipples as he pounded me. He bent down and began kissing, then sucking gently on my neck and I began to orgasm. Pietro felt my orgasm and leaned back up, clutched my hips harder, and began going even deeper inside me until he began to cum.

 

When we both finished, he collapsed on top of me out of breath.

 

I looked around the kitchen at the mess, “Maybe we should order out?”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching too many cooking shows ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
